No Van Gogh
by RionahAnha
Summary: Sam wasn't all set, Dean thought wildly. He wasn't all set. He wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to give his little brother to someone else. He wasn't ready for a Sammy that was okay without him at his side. DeAged Sam. Rated T for language.


**Disclaimer: **I wish.

"Dean. There's somebody in our yard."

Dean turned at the statement. He had been inspecting the tear in the back screen door; now, he found himself confronted with his sleep rumpled little brother, freshly woken from an impromptu nap on the living room floor. Sam, bare foot and bare chested, scratched his scalp through his thick brown curls and crinkled his nose at Dean.

"Dean, I think he wants t'steal the Impala."

Dean chuckled at his brother's imagination and set the screen patch he was holding on the ground. "I doubt anyone would try stealing her in the middle of the day, Sammy."

Sam scowled. "He was looking at her."

Dean sighed and stood, rubbing his palms on his thighs. "Everybody looks at her, Sammy. She's a work of art." He reached out a hand and tousled Sam's hair as he passed him on his way to the front door.

He caught a glimpse through the front window of a truck parked parallel to their drive way. He pulled the front door open just as their visitor, a tall, thin man in jeans and a t-shirt, mounted their front steps. He had a shock of white-blond hair underneath a red Cardinals ball cap and a good humored smile that he offered to Dean.

"I didn't even knock yet," the stranger said, and Dean opened the screen door, stepping into the crack.

"Heard your truck pull up," he said easily. The man was about his age, give or take a few years, with long, tan arms and big shoulders that belied a hidden strength. Not as big as Dean- not nearly as big as Sammy used to be- but someone who could hold his own if need be. Dean cocked his head. "I'm going to assume there's a reason your standing on my front porch," he said, and the man chuckled, cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the Impala sitting importantly in the drive way.

"She's a beautiful car," he said, and Dean sighed.

"Not for sale," he said curtly, and the man laughed.

"I'm not offering," he countered. He squinted, took his ball cap off, bent the brim with his hands. A nervous habit, Dean noted. Behind him, he felt a small hand light on the back of his thigh.

"I'm Luke Barrows," the stranger offered. "I live up the road, about half a mile." He gestured vaguely with his hand. Dean hesitated, then stepped outside, closing the screen door behind him with force. He heard Sammy huff his irritation.

"Dean Winchester," he said, and held out his hand. Luke shook it firmly.

"Look, man, I'm sorry to intruding on a Sunday and all, but Tim Fleming told me I could find you here." He took a step back, jerked his head at the truck on the roadside. Dean noticed, for the first time, two tarp covered lumps in the bed. "He said you're a handy mechanic and I'm in need of some help."

Dean nodded slowly. Tim was a good guy, sending cases Dean's way that he couldn't take on at the shop. The few extra jobs helped Dean establish himself in Old Grave, and the few extra dollars were a godsend. "What do you have?" He asked casually, and Luke grinned.

"Dirt bikes," he said, and bounded down the steps. Dean cast a glance behind him at the screen door, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. Shrugging, he followed Luke out of the shade of the porch to the truck, where they wrestled the tarps away to reveal two badly maintained bikes.

Dean whistled. "Where the hell did you pick up shit like this?" He asked, and Luke laughed.

"Auction over in South Hills," he replied. "Twenty two bucks a piece. I figured I'd take them to Tim, get them fixed up, but he says he won't take bike work at the garage. Said you'd probably be willing to look at them."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not really a bike guy," He admitted. "I haven't worked on one of these since, Jesus- high school, to be honest." He gave a tight lipped smile. "I don't know what I'd be able to do."

Luke pursed his lips, squinted at Dean. He squinted a lot, Dean thought. Another nervous habit.

"I mean, I can try." Dean held his hands out, palms spread. "I'm not promising anything, but I'll take a look."

Luke grinned. "That's awesome, man. Really. Thanks." He let the tail gate down with a crash, then hauled himself up. "Just look 'em over, see what you think. I'm not in any rush. Not yet, anyways."

Dean held up his hands, took the front wheel of the bike. With Luke supporting the end, he lowered it gently to the ground. The wheel left black rubber marks on his fingers; the bike was light and hollow. "I sure hope you're not expecting to get a lot of life out of these things," he advised, and Luke laughed.

"They're presents," he said. "My kid brothers turn thirteen in a couple of months. I figured they'd love something like this."

At kid brothers, Dean remembered Sammy, all alone in the house, with tools lying unattended in the kitchen. He turned quickly, ready to call for his brother, and was surprised to see Sammy outside on the porch. He was standing on the bottom of the railing, leaning his little body into them, his chin perched on the top bar, his bare toes sticking out from between the bannisters. He watched them with a look of intense concentration. His hair was a mess.

Dean chuckled, and Luke followed his gaze across the yard to Sam. He cast Dean a wry look. "Your kid looks pretty interested in these here."

"My brother," Dean automatically corrected. He felt a rush of pride however, at the phrase. _His kid. _Sammy had always been his kid, even before he was small again.

He turned, grabbed the second bike, lowered it, but not without noticing the look Luke was giving him. He was getting used to it, watching people try to calculate age differences and the validity of Dean's claim. He smiled briefly, offered the explanation that had become part of his mantra over the past year. "What can I say? My parents started early and ended late."

Luke laughed and hopped off of the truck. He took the handlebars of one bike and nodded at Dean. "Where to?"

Dean leaned the other bike against his hip. "I've got a garage around the back," he said. On the porch, Sam hadn't moved.

Dean wheeled the bike up the driveway, past the Impala. He stopped next the porch, looked up at Sammy. "Go get your shoes on and come out to the garage," he said, and Sam bit his lip, then hopped backwards off of the railing and darted inside. He turned and saw Luke stopped behind him, waiting patiently for him to lead the way.

The garage wasn't really a garage- more of a big shed, really, set apart from the house and outside of the chain link fence that circled their backyard. It was much too small to fit the Impala, and Dean had been using it for storage: the old air conditioner he meant to fix, the lawnmower he didn't need, a couple of Sam's toys, scattered around. Dean unlatched the bay doors, pulled them open. He kicked a couple of toy trucks out of the way and wheeled the bike inside.

Luke did the same, and Dean crouched immediately beside one, his eyes sweeping the frame, his fingers probing. He didn't know a lot about dirt bikes, but he knew a little, and what he didn't, he could learn. Outside, the chain link fence creaked and a minute later, Sammy appeared in the doorway. His sneakers were untied and he didn't have a shirt on, but the intrigue in his brown eyes drew any attention away from his haphazard appearance. He stuck a finger in his mouth and looked from Luke to Dean, who held out a hand.

"Come here, Sammy."

Sam darted immediately to Dean, pressing his body against his side and wrapping an arm around Dean's neck. Dean stood up, taking Sammy with him, and used one hand to pry Sam's hand from his mouth.

"You like 'em, Sammy?" He asked, and Sam shrugged.

"Are they motorcycles?" He whispered, and Dean shook his head.

"Dirt bikes, Sammy."

Sam darted a quick glance at Luke, who had his ball cap in his hands again. "Are they for me?" He asked hopefully, and Dean laughed.

"No. I'm going to fix them." Dean moved away from the bikes, towards Luke. Sam burrowed into his shoulder; Dean jostled him free, frowning. "Stop it, Sam. This is Luke. Don't be rude."

Sam scowled, but he pulled his head out of Dean's neck and looked at Luke, who smiled brightly.

"Hey, Sam," he greeted, and Sam sniffed at him.

"You smell like a cow," he said. 

Monday evening after work, Dean took Sam to the library. While Sam was happily watching the Monday night puppet show, Dean slipped out the back of the kids room and made his way to the automotive section, where he found a couple of manuals on dirt bikes and checked them out.

Back at home, Sam sat at the kitchen table and struggled to color in the lines of the paper he had brought home. It had a caterpillar and the letter C on it. Dean listened with half an ear to Sam's chatter as he stirred chopped chicken and onions together. "And C is for cat, and C is for couch, and for car…"

He stopped abruptly, and Dean looked over his shoulder. Sam was standing on the chair, leaning over the table to get a better look at the manuals Dean had brought home. "Is this for the motorcycles in the shed, Dean?"

"They're dirt bikes, Sam." Dean scraped the bottom of the pan, loosening the onions there. "Don't draw on those books, okay? I have to take them back."

"I'm not stupid," Sam huffed. "I know how a library works, Dean." He flattened his stomach on the table, grasped the furthest manual with his fingertips, and dragged it towards him. "Can I help you with the motorcycles, Dean?"

"You can watch."

Sam scowled. "I always help you with the Imapala."

"That's different." Dean took two plates out of the cabinet, set them next to the stove. "The Imapala is ours. Those bikes aren't."

"That's stupid." Sam slammed the tip of his crayon down on the tabletop. It left a streak of red. "I can help. I'm not a baby."

Dean frowned. "I didn't say you were-"

"You _always_ let me help-"

"With the Impala, yeah." Dean crossed to the fridge, retrieved the milk, and poured Sam a glass. "When I fixed that Winebago last month, did I let you help with that?"

Sam glared. "No."

"No. Why not?" When Sam didn't answer, Dean continued, "Because it wasn't mine. It wasn't ours, which means that I have to be extra careful with it. People are paying me to do this stuff, Sammy. These bikes aren't any different than any of those other jobs."

Sam's face turned down even further. He scratched a finger nail along his crayon, watched it peels off in tiny red shards. "But I always help," he whispered sadly, and Dean placed the milk in front of him.

"You can help me in other ways." Sam didn't look at him. "You can help me by clearing the table. You know, so we can eat."

"I hate chicken," Sam muttered, but he placed his crayon back in the box, gathered his pictures into his arms, and marched them out of the kitchen. 

Dean fell asleep that night looking over the manuals in bed. When he woke up the next morning, Sam was crushed into his side, his legs twisted in the sheets and his arms spread over Dean's stomach. The manuals were knocked askew on the ground.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder and shook him. "Sam. Sammy. Come on, man."

Sam moaned and rolled over. He buried his face in Dean's chest and muttered something. For a second, Dean was struck, once again, how small his brother was. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard. Maybe he would call Bobby today, see if he'd heard anything…

On his chest, Sam shifted, then lifted his head. His eyes, sleep smeared and lidded, sought out Dean's face. He grinned. "Hey-o, Dean-o."

"Hey-o," Dean greeted softly. He ran a hand over Sam's face, pushed a shock of hair off of his forehead. "Dude, you need a haircut."

Sam pulled a face, buried his face back into the crook of Dean's neck. "Do not."

"You start school in a week, man."

"I like my hair." Sam giggled suddenly and, pulling himself to his knees, reached over Dean's face to scrub his fingers through Dean's own short blond locks. "I don't wanna be bald, like you."

"Dude." Dean grasped Sam's wrist, pushed his hands away. "I'm not bald."

"Yes, you are." Sam laughed. He struggled against Dean's hold, but there was no real fight in him. "You're bald and you're old."

A year ago, Sam had been almost as old as he was. Dean closed off that avenue of thought, grabbed Sammy, pulled him in close. He listened to his little brother laugh, felt him squirm, and tried to gather the strength to do this one more day. 

After work that night, Dean went out to the garage with Sam and washed down the bikes. He scrubbed away the grime from the frame, worked in between the nooks in the motor with a brush. Sam watched him from the doorway, where he was lying on his stomach in the dirt and studying ants.

"Can I feed them?" He asked, and Dean shook his head.

"They scavenge, Sammy. They get their own food."

"Like what?" Sam propped himself up on his elbows, rested his chin on his fist. "Do you think they like chicken?"

Dean shrugged. He took a rag, wiped at the handlebars with it. The bikes weren't so bad looking, now that they were clean… "No. They like leaves and stuff."

"I _hate _chicken, Dean."

"No, you don't. You eat it all the time."

"Because you make me." Sam scrambled to his knees, brushing his hands against his shirt front in a futile attempt to dislodge some of the dirt there. "Can we have pizza for dinner?"

Dean sighed, checked the time on his cell phone. It was already after six, and he still hadn't made dinner. He put the phone back in his pocket, ran a hand through his hair. There was never enough time left in the day, he thought. In the doorway, Sam squinted.

"Are you gonna ride the bikes, Dean?"

"No." Dean closed his tool box, tossed the rag into a corner. He would try starting them tomorrow, he decided. He looked at Sammy, held out a hand. "Come on, man. Let's go eat, okay?"

Sam grinned. "Pizza?"

"Waffles?"

"Pizza?"

"Waffles with strawberries?"

Sam pursed his lips. "Deal," he agreed, and scampered ahead of Dean to the house. 

Bobby didn't answer when he called, so Dean left a message. It was a weekly thing, the checking in, following up on leads. Bobby was the only one he kept in contact with, the only one who knew about Sam. It was safer that way, they had decided. To the rest of the world, Dean and Sam Winchester were missing, or dead, or whatever they chose to believe. Until they could fix Sammy, Dean didn't want any interference from anyone.

He put Sam to bed and, after checking the salt lines, made his way into his own bed. He propped himself up against the headboard and spent a few hours perusing the usual sites, checking into anything worth reading.

It was after eleven when his bedroom door creaked open and Sam shuffled into the doorway, rubbing a fist in his eyes. "Dean, I had a dream."

Dean sighed, put the laptop aside, and beckoned to Sam. He came without hesitation, curling himself into a ball and burying himself into Dean's side. "It was a monster." Sam looked up, his eyes big. "It had teeth."

Sometimes, Dean thought that Sam remembered more than he let on. This was one of those times, when the nightmares became too real, too substantial to brush aside as an overactive imagination. It was these times that made Dean feel the most helpless, the most motivated to find a cure, set things right. He couldn't imagine what was going to happen if Sam stayed this way, if in a few years he was old enough to wonder and ask questions. Dean didn't have any idea what he was supposed to do then.

"It's just a dream, Sammy." Dean closed the laptop, turned off the light. "You know that."

Sam sniffled, nodded. "Can I sleep here?"

Dean sighed. This, he thought, was one battle he would never win. "Just for now. Okay?"

"Okay." Sam stretched out, pulled the covers up over his skinny legs, repositioned himself so he was face down on Dean's pillow. "I like it here. It's safer."

_Safer_. Dean smiled tightly, brushed his hand over Sammy's head. If only, he thought desperately, if only he knew. 

The next morning he started the dirt bikes. One of them started easily, but chugged and sputtered out noxious fumes that quickly filled the garage with foul smelling smoke. The other hummed but didn't catch at all.

Sam came with him to work. It was only a week left before school started. Sam was already enrolled in the kindergarten class, and it was all he could talk about. He sat in the doorway of the garage office while Dean struggled underneath the Ford truck someone had brought in the day before and chattered ceaselessly about what he was going to do in school, about how excited he was to use his new Transformers backpack Dean had bought for him, about how he couldn't wait to tell his teacher that he already knew the alphabet and the sounds of the vowels and how to spell his name and Dean's and Bobby's and Iron Man's…

A truck pulled up to the pump outside and Dean was startled to realize that he recognized it. From out of the cab climbed Luke Barrows. Dean wiped his hands on a rag, tossed it onto the bench. "Stay here," he instructed Sam, and went out to meet Luke.

Luke pumped gas, his back leaning against the wheel hub of his truck. He grinned and squinted at Dean as he approached. "Hey."

"Hey." Dean stopped next to the pump, ran a hand over his face. It was hot. "How much?"

Luke dug his wallet out of his back pocket, peeled a few bills out of it. "Forty." He coughed. "Any luck with the bikes?"

Dean sighed. "A little. Got one to start. The other one won't catch." He shrugged, took the money. "I'm gonna look at a couple things tonight, see if it's anything I can do."

Luke nodded. "Let me know if it's a waste of time. I'll figure something else out for the boys." He cast about him with his eyes, lighted upon the Impala, sitting at the side of the lot. "She really is a beauty, man."

Dean couldn't stop the grin that spread across his face. "I know."

Luke coughed, wiped his arm across his face. "Seventy?"

"Sixty seven." Dean looked over his shoulder. His baby _was_ beautiful, a dark sleek spot against the grainy background of the washed out desert town.

Luke nodded. "Always wanted something like that. But this-" he banged the palm of his hand against the side of his truck "- this is the only kinda vehicle that makes any sense around these parts." He shrugged. "For the job, you know."

"Ranch hand?" Dean guessed, and Luke pulled the pump out of the gas hole, hung it back up against the pump.

"My step-father owns a small operation couple miles east of town. A couple hundred head, some horses and stuff. Mostly free range." He shrugged. "It's the family business, you know?"

The family business. What was that, anymore? Dean thought of Sam, coloring in pictures of superheroes in the office of a two pump gas station, and wondered just what the hell he thought he was doing here, playing with cars and barely scratching by.

Luke opened the driver's side door, nodded at Dean. "Let me know about those bikes, okay?" he asked, and Dean nodded, waved his good bye. The truck started, puttered out of the lot in a wave of dust and blue exhaust fumes. 

It was six days until Sam was due to start kindergarten, for the second time, and Dean found he was more unprepared for this than he was the first time around. John had taken care of the paperwork- registration and immunizations and medical records. This time around, it fell on Dean's shoulders.

He scurried around that night, making sure each form requested was available. Birth certificate, social security card, allergy alerts. Most of the forms were fake, doctored by a sweet talking black market forger in Atlanta. He'd done them on a favor for Bobby, and Dean was grateful. He had a feeling that toting in a birth certificate from 1983 for a five year old boy was going to raise some red flags.

Sam hopped down the stairs, skipping from one foot to another. He was barefoot, his hair still wet from his shower and curling against the nape of his neck, dressed in his favorite pajamas- one of Dean's t-shirts. He smiled brightly at Dean.

"Can we go look at the bikes?"

Dean sighed, looked at the clock on his cell phone. Eight-fourteen. "You brush your teeth?" Sam flashed him a wide, pearly smile, and Dean sighed again. "All right. Five minutes, then its bedtime. In your _own _bed tonight, okay?"

"Okay," Sam agreed happily, reaching up his arms for Dean. Dean acquiesced, swinging his brother onto his hip and snagging a flashlight on his way out the door.

"Five minutes, and no whining, or I'm not taking you out here anymore. Capiche?"

"Capiche," Sam replied. He dug his elbows into Dean's collar bone as they crossed the yard to the garage. Dean settled Sam on his other hip, swung the garage door open, pulled the overhead light on. Sam squirmed.

"Put me down."

"You don't have any shoes on. No." Dean flicked off the flashlight and laid it on the shelf beside the door, then moved to stand next to one of the bikes, the one that worked. "You wanna sit on it, Sammy?"

Sam nodded eagerly, and Dean lifted Sam carefully onto the seat of the bike, holding him steady by the hips. "Don't move too much, Sammy."

Sam stretched out his arms, snagged ahold of the handle bars. He made a high, guttural squeal, then laughed outright. He looked up at Dean, his eyes bright. "This is fun!" He crowed. "Maybe we can keep one, Dean?"

"I don't think so." Dean let Sammy sit on it another minute, then lifted him off. "They're birthday presents."

"My birthday's coming up."

"In five months, dude."

Sam pulled at Dean's shirt collar, a frown on his face. "Please, Dean-o?"

Dean hated those damn puppy eyes. Even when Sam was twenty five, they had been impossible to resist. "Maybe when you're older," he said evenly, and tried to ignore the irony of the statement. 

The following afternoon, Dean unclogged the starter on the second bike and it roared to life. It chugged and groaned, but it didn't spew any gross gas, so Dean counted it as a win. The other he let run until it was dry, then disassembled the exhaust system.

Sam needed a haircut, so that night, after Sam's shower, he set up a chair in the middle of the kitchen and called Sam down. Sam, as he had expected, did not appear.

He waited another minute, then called for Sam again. When there was no answer, he laid the scissors and towel on the kitchen table and stepped to the bottom of the stairs. "Sam!" He waited, then added, as sternly as he could, "If I have to come up there and get you, man, you're in trouble. You hear me?"

Silence.

Dean ground his teeth together and started up the stairs. Sam didn't want a haircut, but it was long enough to sweep back into a small pony tail now, and he sure as hell wasn't sending Sam to school next week looking like some un-kept waif. He didn't need a reputation as _that _kind of parent spreading around town.

Sam wasn't in the bathroom. Dean checked inside of the shower, then underneath the sink, just in case. In the hallway, he yanked open the linen closet. The door to the attic was locked and secure- he knew Sammy wasn't up there. Dean set his teeth, closed his eyes. He had a head ache building.

"Sam, this is your last chance."

When there was no answer, he pushed open the door to Sam's room. It was empty, but strewn about with Sam's possessions: toys and books and clothes were everywhere, tossed around as if a small hurricane had hurtled through. Dean knelt to look under the bed, then pulled open the closet. No Sam, and Dean's stomach began to churn.

"Sammy?"

On the other side of the wall, something bumped. Dean was out the door and in his own room in time to see a shirt hanging in his own closet move conspicuously. He threw aside the offending shirt and grasped Sammy by the forearm as he tried to burrow deeper into the closet.

Sam pushed at his hand. "Dean, let go!"

Dean ignored his brother's protests and dragged Sammy, pulling and fighting, out into the room. When he was clear of the closet, he hauled Sam up into his arms, pinning his flailing arms with one hand. "Sam, knock it off!" he barked, and Sam stilled, but kept up a mutinous glare.

"Put me _down_, Dean."

Dean turned on his heel and marched out of the room. Down the hall, down the stairs, through the living room to the kitchen, where he plunked his brother down on the chair and bent so they were eye level. Sam looked away; Dean grabbed his chin and forced his head up. "You hear me calling you?" He demanded, and Sam tried to wrestle his head away. "You hear me?"

Sam nodded, and Dean, trying to force down the wild beating of his own heart, snapped, "You hear me calling you, you answer me, you understand?" Sam blinked. "You don't answer me, you better damn _come _to me, Sam. Don't you ever hide from me again, do you understand?"

Sam sniffled. "Dean-"

"You're hiding, then I don't know where you are. If I don't know where you are, how am I supposed to protect you?" Sam didn't know, Dean reminded himself, Sam didn't know what there was to be protected from. He let go of Sam's chin, ran a shaky hand through his hair. He _needed _Sam to understand.

"From now on, if you hear me calling you, you answer. You understand me?"

Sam was crying. For a minute, Dean felt guilty. He pushed it away. Sam needed to understand this. He hardened his voice. "Sam."

"I just- I like my hair now," Sam whispered, hiccupping, and Dean sighed, put a hand on top of Sam's head.

"Tough luck, kid."

He wrapped the towel around Sam's shoulders; Sam tugged it off. Dean let it slide, but when he stepped behind Sam and took up the first chunk of hair, Sam jerked his head, screamed. "Don't touch my hair!" He tried to slither off of the chair, but Dean grabbed his arm, hauled him back. He was beyond irritated now; he was good and angry.

"You want me to cut off your ear?" He snapped, and Sam gave a hitched sob. "You keep moving around while I have these out and I will. You know better, Sam. Knock it off."

Sam yanked his shoulder out of Dean's grasp, buried his face in his hands, and wailed. Dean almost covered his ears. He wanted to hit something. Not Sam- never Sam- but _something._ This wasn't for him, this sedate, apple pie, small town life. He shouldn't be cutting a five year olds hair, struggling to prep a kid for kindergarten, cutting coupons to make ends meet. This wasn't his life. It couldn't be.

The phone rang. Dean went to the counter, flicked it open. It was Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby."

"Dean?"

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. On the chair at the table, Sam continued to sob dramatically into his hands. "Who else would it be, Bobby?"

Bobby chuckled. "Boy, you sound all shot to hell." He paused. "What's that noise? The kid crying?"

Dean twisted at the waist, pinned Sam with a stare. Sam stared back, his face running with snot and tears. "_The kid _is having a tantrum."

"I am not!" Sam shrieked, and Dean leveled his best John Winchester glare at Sam. Sam was unfazed.

Bobby chuckled again. "Trouble in paradise?"

Dean didn't know what to say. How was he supposed to talk, with Sam right there, listening in on every word? "That's an understatement."

"Everything okay?"

It was a loaded question. It didn't mean just Sam's meltdown, it encompassed everything: money, health, mental stability, the hunt, Sammy. Dean appreciated the concern, but right now it just made him feel more inadequate than he already did. He sighed.

"I'm trying to cut his hair, Bobby. He starts school next week."

Bobby coughed. "He never did like getting his hair cut, you know. Used to throw a hell of a fit when your daddy did it too."

Dean remembered. "Yeah, well, I guess I was hoping some things would be different this time around."

"Yeah. Don't hold your breath, boy." Bobby hesitated, then continued: "Listen, call me back later when you have a free second, okay? I have some news for you."

Dean's heart jumped. "A lead?"

"Sort of." Bobby sighed. "Dean, listen, it sounds like you're having a rough night-"

Dean snorted.

"- but just remember your doing right by that kid. He don't know it now, but one day, he's gonna appreciate all you do for him. Even things he don't like now- like cutting his hair so he don't look like a street rat- he'll appreciate. You're not going to do him any favors by giving into him all of the time."

That was the fine line, Dean supposed. The one he was most scared of treading, of overstepping or under-reaching. He wanted to be just the brother again, the fun brother who didn't need to bother Sam to shower and eat his vegetables and not play in the road. He gave Bobby his assurances that he would call in a little, then hung up. Sam watched him apprehensively from the chair, a scowl plastered on his reddened face and jaw jutting out. Dean stuck out his own jaw and approached.

"Ready to try this again?" He asked, and Sammy stared stiffly ahead, his eyes glittering. He didn't move while Dean cut off the few inches he wanted to, clearing Sam's forehead and neck and uncovering his ears. Sam was stolid and unreachable throughout the ordeal.

When he was done, it was well after eight and Dean was too tired to deal with any other curve-balls Sam had to throw. He carried Sam up the stairs, stood guard while he brushed his teeth, and tucked Sam into bed. When he knelt to kiss Sam's forehead – something he would never withhold, no matter how angry he was- Sam rolled away, buried his face in his pillow, and kicked the mattress.

Dean let it go. Sam would kick the mattress until he was so exhausted he would fall asleep, and tomorrow morning, Dean would have his sweet, smart little brother back. He sighed and turned out the light.

Downstairs, he swept up the hair clippings and dumped them in the trash. He righted the kitchen, went through the nightly routine of locking the doors and windows and checking the salt lines. When he was done, he sat back at the kitchen table and looked at his phone. Bobby's number hovered under his fingertip; he threw the phone, watched it clatter against the fridge and the floor. He buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe through his fingers, tried to _breathe._

It didn't help. It was a long time before he could force himself back to his feet, force himself to pick up his phone off of the ground and check it for damage. Instead of calling Bobby, he went to bed. 

Dean wasn't surprised to see that Sam's purposeful ignoring of him did not extend to sleeping in his own bed. When he woke up the next morning, it was to the cold tingling in the hand that Sam's head was cutting off the circulation to. Dean grimaced as he pulled his arm back, shook it back to life. His movements woke Sam, who stared blearily at him out of sleep smeared eyes.

"Why're you waving?" he asked in a confused voice, and Dean sighed.

"I'm not waving. My hand is asleep." He half thought about saying something about Sam being in his bed – _again- _but the memory of last night's meltdown was still fresh on his mind and he didn't think that he wanted to start the day off on _that_ foot. So he just sat up, pulling Sam up with him, and stretched. Sam watched him suspiciously, then clambered to his feet and raised his arms towards the ceiling.

"I can almost go as high as you," he said proudly, and Dean had to smile. 

The shop was no place for a five year old boy, Dean knew, but until Sam could start kindergarten in four days, there was nowhere else for him to go. Sam played by himself in the office or if it wasn't too hot, in the parking lot. It was only about sixty degrees that morning, so Sam spent the hours kicking his soccer ball from one end of the lot to the other and coloring on the pavement with chalk.

They ate their lunch together outside, both of them leaning against the side of the shop in the shade. Dean sat on an old packing crate and Sam sat on an old truck tire. They had turkey sandwiches and Fritos, and Dean allowed himself to relax a little. Beside him, Sam was jittery, bouncing his heels against the ground, wiggling from side to side, singing to his sandwich. Dean let him be. Sam was more care free, happier, than he had ever been in his life. It was the small moments like this- the fleeting ones, the ones that passed by almost unnoticed from day to day- that Dean felt his resentment against his father burn brightest. How, he thought as he listened with half an ear to Sammy, had John been willing to throw all of this away for a stupid hunt?

Dean didn't regret killing Azazel. He didn't regret falling into his own well of vengeance and remorse. What he did regret, he thought sadly, was pulling Sammy down into it with him. 

Bobby called again that night, when Dean was in the basement doing laundry and Sam was refusing to eat his chicken. He heard the ring through the floorboards, heard Sam's chair scrape away and his bare feet pound the floor as he followed the noise to the counter. There was a pause, then Sam crowed, "Hey-o, Bobby!" He laughed shrilly. "_Uncle_ Bobby- I know, I know, I know, I know. Uncle, uncle, uncle- hey! Guess what? We got motorcycles in the garage-"

Dean closed the lid on the washing machine, cranked the knob around to the right setting, listened to the rush of water as it filled. He turned off the light and made his way up the stairs to the kitchen, where Sam's plate was still untouched in front of his chair. Sam himself was upside down on the couch, his head hanging off of the cushion and his feet propped up over the top. He was talking a mile a minute.

"-I hafta go to school, Bobby. Dean got me a backpack with Megatron on it. In four days I'm going to use it, and I have a lunch box too, and Dean says sometimes I can buy pizza from the cafeteria if I'm not a _insufferable brat_ and they have this cool swing on the playground that you can put three people on-"

Dean snagged him by the ankle and hauled him, squealing, over the top of the couch. The cell phone clattered to the ground; Sam screamed with laughter. Dean set him down, gently, on the ground, patted his chest.

"Dude, you're going to talk Bobby to death."

"I am not." Sam squirmed underneath Dean's firm hold. "I dropped the phone. He's gonna think a coyote got me."

A coyote. Not a razor back, not a crocatta, not a werewolf or vampire or a hell hound. A normal, stupid, simple coyote. Dean cleared his throat, forced back the sudden lump there. He patted Sam's chest again. "Go finish your dinner."

Sam's face sunk. "Dean-"

"Or you can have it for breakfast in the morning." Dean straightened, shrugging. "Your choice." He stepped over Sam and around the couch, where he retrieved the phone from its haphazard location, half under the couch. On the other side of the sofa, Sam rolled to his feet, and, shooting Dean a murderous look, went to the table.

Dean pressed the phone against his ear. "Bobby?"

"Who else?" The voice on the other end of the line was weary, but bemused. "What happened to the kid?"

Dean glanced through the doorway, to where Sam was kneeling on his chair and picking through his dinner with his fingers. He snapped his fingers, got Sam's attention, shook his head. Sam ignored him.

"He's eating dinner, Bobby." Sam held up a piece of chicken in front of his face, then dropped it to the table and rolled his plate over it. Dean sighed. "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Bobby chuckled, then stopped abruptly. "Any better today than yesterday?"

"Some." _Lots._ "Listen, what'd you have to tell me last night?"

"You got a minute?" Bobby paused. "Somewhere away from the ears, preferably?"

Dean nodded, then realized that Bobby couldn't see him and coughed. "Yeah. Hold on- I'll go outside." He strode through the kitchen, grabbing a pen off of the counter as he did. Sam watched him with barely concealed curiosity; Dean pointed a finger at him. "Eat it, Sammy. All of it. I'm checking the trash when I get in, you hear me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean gave him one more look before stepping outside, pulling the door closed firmly behind him. The backyard was bathed in the soft yellow light from the kitchen windows. The air was crisp and clear and above his head, the Milky Way spilled like a puddle across the black night sky.

"All right, shoot, Bobby."

"There's a coven down in Santa Auguasta. Rufus heard a couple of things- so far they haven't killed anyone, which is why they're all still living." Bobby paused; Dean waited, the phone pressed against his ear.

"So?"

"_So _Rufus told me something they'd done recently- they've been speeding up the growth rates of a couple of horses with a spell."

Dean blinked. "A horse? They aged a goddamn horse?"

Bobby sighed. "They're race horses, apparently."

Dean massaged his forehead with his fingertips. On the far side of the fence, something stirred in the underbrush. "Bobby-"

"Listen, if they're screwing with age and time lines, it's worth looking into, isn't it?" Bobby demanded. "Jesus Christ, Dean- this is exactly what we've been looking for."

Dean didn't know what to say to Bobby. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, with this ridiculous new hope suddenly cleaving his chest in two and the knowledge that inside, right now, five and a half year old Sam was probably stuffing chicken down the sink. He felt the stupidness, the ridiculousness of the whole situation lodge itself in his throat.

"Dean?" Bobby's voice was patient, knowing. Dean stifled a sigh of irritation. How did Bobby always _know?_

"I'm here."

"Look, I know how you feel about witches-"

Dean snorted.

"- but so far, they haven't proved to be malicious and I just- we've had a lot of dead ends, Dean. It's worth a shot."

Dean wanted to shout: _We've _had a lot of dead ends? Bobby wasn't here, moving through the day by day drudgery of raising a kid. _He _still got to be out there, active, making a difference-

Inside of the house, something crashed. Sam howled. Dean jerked back to attention. "Bobby, I got to go."

Bobby sighed heavily. "I'll email you the stuff, Dean." He hesitated. "Just- call me later this week, okay? Let me know what you decide."

Sam was sobbing erratically on the other side of the door. Dean snapped the phone shut, swung the door open. Sam sat on the floor next to the table, clutching his forehead in his hands, his eyes screwed shut, wailing. His chair was tipped over and his plate of food was upended on the floor next to him. Dean almost sat down and wailed with him.

He didn't though. If there was one thing he was good at, one thing he could still do right, it was manage a crisis. Somehow, falling off of chairs at the dinner table had become a crisis. He scooped up Sam and, being careful not to bounce him around, carried him to the sink. Sam buried his face in Dean's chest and cried.

Dean sat him on the counter and pried Sam's hands off of his face. Sam sobbed in retaliation. "Sammy- let me look, okay? Give me two seconds, man."

There was a small bump on his head, right below his hairline. Sam's cries softened while Dean inspected it, occasionally batting away his small, prying hands. He sniffed. "Huh. You'll live."

Sam sputtered, stuck his fingers in his mouth. Dean let it be. "Am I bleedin'?" He asked in choked voice, and Dean sighed.

"No." He went to move away from the counter, to the freezer, but Sam lurched and clung to him, whimpering. Dean relented and hoisted his brother back into his arms. "What happened, man?"

"I just- I just fell."

"Just like that?" Dean held Sam with one hand, used the other one to open the freezer and grope around inside of it for an icepack. He pressed it gently against Sam's forehead. "Here. Hold this, okay?"

Sam sniffled. "Okay, Dean-o." He clasped the ice pack to his forehead with one hand and stuck the other one into his mouth. "Our chairs are wobbly, Dean," he said around a mouthful of fingers, and Dean sighed, leaned his back against the counter, surveyed the mess on the floor with a sense of despair. In his arms, Sam sniffled and wiped his nose on Dean's shirt sleeve. 

It was four days until Sam started kindergarten. Dean awoke the next morning to find his side empty. He was alone in his bed. He took a moment to revel at the unexpected joy of the find before a quiet shuffling from next door drew his attention. He got up and made his way, shirtless and scruffy, to Sam's bedroom.

Sam stood in the middle of his room, dressed in Dean's old AC/DC t-shirt and his own bright red sneakers. In a circle around him, small piles of miscellaneous items were stacked neatly: his new box of crayons, his new box of pencils, his new shiny pink erasor. His Megatron backpack and his Spider Man lunchbox and his Lego Star Wars folder.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Sammy…what are you doing?"

"Just lookin' at my stuff," Sam said happily. He grinned at Dean, pushed his hair off of his forehead with two hands. "Wanna look at it with me, Dean?"

It was six forty-two. Dean had to be at the shop in an hour and eighteen minutes. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind and grinned back. "Sure, Sammy." 

One dirt bike ran. Dean pumped the tires and that evening, in the purple haze of the setting sun, rode it tentatively up and down the driveway. Sam watched from his carefully regulated post atop the hood of the Impala, clapping enthusiastically and cheering when Dean managed to turn it around without falling over.

"Can I try now?" He shouted excitedly. Dean drew the bike up beside the Impala and, on impulse, reached out with one arm and swung Sammy off of the hood. He placed Sam on the seat in front of him, sliding back to make room. His feet reached the ground easily; he balanced the slight weight of the bike between his knees.

"Hold on to the handlebars, Sammy. Can you reach them?" Sam slithered forward, grabbed a hold of the bars, his fingers brushing Dean's hands. His excitement was palpable; he fairly vibrated with the force of his eagerness. "Keep your feet on the bars there- no, Sammy, _there_. Good boy. Sit still, okay?"

Dean guided the path of the bike with his feet. It felt sturdy beneath him, as solid and tangible as the little boy between his arms**. **They moved up the driveway, haltingly, slowly. Sam cheered again, as if this was the biggest moment of his life, as if he had never done anything more exciting than ride a crappy old dirt bike underneath a desert sunset with his big brother.

When Dean tucked Sammy into bed that night, he was surprised when Sam grabbed him around the neck and squeezed him so tightly that he had to grasp onto the headboard to keep from falling over.

"That was the coolest thing ever, Dean," Sam said brightly, and Dean sat on the edge of the bed, willed his throat to loosen.

"Yeah?" He croaked. Sam wiggled under the covers, blinked sleepily up at Dean.

"Yeah, Dean. It was awesome." He grinned blearily. Dean reached over, grabbed Sam's head between his hands, and kissed him, right on top of his messy brown hair.

"Good night, Sammy."

"G'night, Dean-o." Sam yawned again and rolled over, his arms wrapped protectively around his blue crocheted afghan. Dean sat another moment, in the still dark of Sam's bedroom, and thumbed away the sudden, stupid tears in his eyes. 

"It's only three more days, Dean."

Dean turned his attention from the television set to Sam. It was Friday evening and the television was broken. Sam was upset because he wanted to watch "The Jungle Book." He stood quietly behind Dean, persistently dogged in his questions and comments and reminders.

"On Monday, Dean."

"I know." Dean stared hopelessly at the back of the television. He'd unscrewed the panel and messed around with some of the wires, obnoxiously hoping that by some miracle he might stick the right few together and the ancient set would spring back to life. Sammy had been talking about watching "The Jungle Book" all goddamn day long. They had made popcorn and everything.

"Are you gonna come with me?"

Dean rested his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. His head throbbed in time to the beating of his heart. Sam shuffled up behind him, bumping his back with his knees.

"Dean?"

The question in Sam's voice was plaintive, soft. _Are you okay_, _Dean? _It was the same question he had heard gasped at him by his father, shouted at him by Bobby, sobbed over him by Sam. He felt thick and stupid, suddenly. Why on earth had he ever thought that he had a shot at this, taking care of Sam, fixing him, righting things, when he couldn't even get one dumb old television to work?

A small hand touched his cheek. Dean jerked his head up. Sam blinked at him. "The Jungle Book" lay behind him on the floor.

"It's okay, Dean," he offered chirpily. "Want to color instead?"

They colored instead. Sam brought his crayons and coloring books from his bedroom and they stretched out on their stomachs on the living room floor and colored in pictures of Buzz Lightyear and Woody, of Iron Man and Spiderman, of cars and horses and umbrellas. They ate the bowl of popcorn, right there on the living room floor, and when it was done, they made more. Dean popped it on the stove with Sammy standing beside him on a chair and giggling every time a fluff of kernel exploded against the glass lid of the pan. They ate that bowl sitting side by side on the floor with their backs to the couch. Dean showed Sam how to throw the popcorn in the air and catch it in his mouth, and every time Sam tried and missed, Dean howled with laughter at the sight of his little brother trying to fish popcorn out of his shirt.

After they ate the popcorn and they were all colored out, Sam disappeared upstairs. He returned with his Lego Star Wars folder pressed to his chest. He got down on his knees, spread it open beside him on the faded carpet, and proceeded to pull from the coloring books every picture that Dean and he had filled in that night. He pressed them neatly into the folder and closed it solemnly. Dean watched him askance.

"Sammy, dude, that's for homework and stuff."

Sam rolled his eyes. "There's no homework yet, Dean. This isn't my homework folder _yet_." At Dean's raised eyebrow, he added: "It's just my special folder now, Dean. Until Monday. I'm just gonna put some of my special stuff in it for now." He rocked back on his haunches, dangled his arms between his knees. "Wanna make something with Legos, Dean? We can make a airport if you want."

They made the airport and then Sam smashed it to pieces. They played Go-Fish with Uno cards and made a card house that Sammy also smashed. Sammy fell asleep at quarter to twelve, sprawled out over Dean's legs on the living room floor, still dressed in his jeans and sneakers. Dean sat back against the couch and watched the soft up-and-down of his brother's chest as he slept. He couldn't bring himself to wake Sammy, to carry him upstairs and force him into pajamas and bundle him into bed. Right now, he wanted his little brother here, with him, close and real and peaceful. He closed his eyes and burned the memory of the night into the backs of his eyelids. He fell asleep that way, one hand on Sammy's head, one hand on the floor. 

Dean woke sometime after four. His back was stiff and the pain in his neck sharp when he moved. Sam was still sleeping on his legs, his head pressed against the living room floor. When Dean picked him up, a kernel of popcorn fell out of his hair.

Sammy didn't move while he carried him upstairs and wrestled his sneakers off of him. He tucked Sam into his bed, then stripped off his own boots and clothes, slid on a pair of sweatpants, and climbed in next to him. Sam would just wake up and come into his bed anyways; he figured he may as well beat him to the punch.

He awoke to the shrill ringing of his cellphone. He fumbled soddenly in the morning light for it. Beside him, Sam grumbled and rolled his head underneath Dean's arm. He found the cell phone and thumbed it open, noting with a dumb sense of alarm that it was almost eight o'clock.

"Dean?"

Dean gasped, tried to cough the sleep out of his voice. It was Tim. "Yeah?"

On the other line, Tim chuckled. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Dean was already throwing the blankets back, swinging his legs out of bed. He coughed again. "Listen, I'm gonna be late-"

"Relax. I was just calling to say that I haven't got anything in the shop today. Mulroney called and said he's going to bring his rig by Tuesday instead- something about his son being taken to the hospital and he hasn't got the time now. There's nothing to do much, so if you want to take the day, you're free to."

It was an offer. Tim never told; he offered. He knew Dean's financial situation, knew that every minute on the clock was budgeted and spent before it even made it into his pocket. He was smart enough to not make the assumption that an extra day off was what Dean wanted.

But he had money coming from Luke Barrrows. An extra morning meant the bikes running sooner, so it wasn't money lost. Dean ran a hand over his chin, spared a glance over his shoulder at Sammy, face down in a pillow, arm lolling over the edge of the bed. He allowed himself a moment of thought.

"Okay," he said. "I guess I'll see you Monday, then."

"Enjoy your weekend, Dean."

The line clicked. Dean tossed the cellphone onto the pile of his clothes on the floor, slid back under the covers, and fell back asleep with Sammy breathing in his ear. 

They spent the morning in the garage. Sammy handed Dean tools and played with his action figures on the floor. Dean twisted and lubed and cursed until finally, the second bike thrummed to life. It hummed when he wheeled it out of the garage and fairly sang when he maneuvered it slowly up and down the driveway. Sam, streaked from head to foot in dirt, threw his arms in the air and cheered. Dean laughed.

Dean herded Sammy inside for lunch and sent him upstairs to wash. While he pulled out chicken for sandwiches, he flipped his phone open and pecked in the number Luke had given him. He answered on the fourth ring.

" 'Ello?"

"Luke?" Dean plucked the bread from the top of the fridge, wincing as his elbow jarred against the metal freezer handle. "It's Dean Winchester."

"Hey, man!" Luke had a loud voice. He sounded, Dean thought, like he was always on the verge of a laugh. "How's it going? How're the bikes? Don't tell me your calling to tell me to scrap 'em."

Dean chuckled. "Not really. They're all set, I think. Dirtbikes aren't really my thing, man, but they run, so I might have done something right."

Luke laughed. "I can't tell you how much that means to me. My brothers are going to be stoked. Listen, when can I stop by and grab them?'

"Whenever. I'm here all weekend, so…"

"I'm about to head out. Mind if I just swung by and grabbed them? Like ten or fifteen minutes?"

Sammy came down the stairs, hopping on one foot and clutching tight to the banister, wobbling. Dean saw a disaster in the making. "Yeah, sure. That's fine."

"Okay, man. Thanks."

Dean hung up and made it through the doorway in time to see Sam's feet go out from under him. He crashed the last two steps and slid to a heap on the floor, laughing.

"That was fun!" He crowed, scrambling to his feet. His hair was wet, but his face was clean, so Dean decided not to comment on it. He held out a hand.

"Come on, man. Come eat."

Sam skipped ahead of him. "I'm starving," he sang lightly. He pulled himself to his chair and groaned. "Dean- why'd you put chicken in this?"

"Because it's a chicken sandwich." Dean sat at his own chair, picked up his own sandwich. Sam glared at him over the top of the table.

"Dean, I hate chicken."

"You do not."

"It tastes like butt." Sam crossed his arms, sat back. "How come we can't just have pizza?"

_Because we're too poor for pizza_, Dean thought. He swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and leaned across the table to push Sam's plate closer to him. "Sammy, just eat it."

"No."

"Or starve."

"I'll starve." Sam jerked his chin up. "I'll just sit here and starve to death."

"Okay." Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "You go ahead and do that." He took a big bite of his sandwich. "But you'll miss kindergarten."

Sam stiffened. He shot Dean a narrow eyed look and poked his sandwich. He lifted the top slice of bread, tried to pull out a piece of chicken. Dean reached over and grabbed ahold of his wrist. "Sammy, stop. Just eat it."

"You put lettuce in it too."

"It's healthy for you."

"I _hate _lettuce. I hate lettuce and chicken and you put them both in."

Dean closed his eyes. Sammy jerked his arm back. "Dean-"

"Just eat it, okay?"

Sam glared, but he picked up the sandwich and took a small bite. Dean released a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. He watched carefully as Sam chewed and swallowed, scrunching his nose up and bunching his brow.

"This tastes like butt, Dean."

"You already said that." A knock sounded on the door. Dean swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and stood in time to catch a-hold of Sam as he darted away from the table. He hauled him back into his chair. "Finish your lunch, Sam. It's just Luke."

Sam's face darkened immediately. He twisted, pulling himself to his knees, and glared at Dean over the back of his chair. "What's _he _doing here?"

"He's getting the bikes." Dean crossed the living room, stepping over the remains of last night's activities on his way to the door: a pile of Legos, a box of crayons, cards and action figures and an upturned white plastic bowl. He reached the door and pulled it open just as Luke raised his hand to knock again.

"Hey." Dean pulled the screen door open and back. "Come in-"

Someone touched the back of his leg. It was Sammy, frowning. "You're bothering our lunch," he said to Luke, and Dean could have hit him. He swept Sam backwards, propelled him towards the kitchen.

"Go eat," he ordered. Sam stopped in the kitchen doorway, still glaring.

"You have to go away," he snapped. "We don't have enough sandwiches for you."

Luke looked uncertainly from Sam to Dean. Dean ignored the look and rolled his eyes at Sam. "Dude, he's not here to eat."

Sam stared a moment longer, then turned his back to them and climbed stiffly into his chair. He glared at his sandwich. Dean offered Luke a tight lipped smile. "Let me just get my keys-"

"Dean, can you cut my crusts?" Sammy twisted in his chair and pinned Dean with a sad, beseeching expression. Dean swallowed back a sigh of irritation.

"Sam, just give me a few minutes, okay?" He went to the couch, where he had tossed his jacket earlier and, digging in the pocket, retrieved his set of keys. He turned back to Luke. "You want to back your truck up to the garage, you can. It'll be easier."

"Sure," Luke agreed. He stepped out of the door and closed it behind him. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sam's plate crashed to the floor, sandwich and all. Dean felt his pulse spike behind his eyes.

"Pick it up, Sam," he barked. He stuck one arm, then the other, into his jacket. Sam sat obstinately on his chair, his arms crossed defiantly.

"No."

Dean pointed one finger at Sam. "I mean it. If that's still on the floor when I come back in-"

"Where're you going?" Sam leapt off of his chair, stepping nimbly over the sandwich on the floor. "Dean, don't go!"

"I'll be right outside." Dean opened the door, pinned Sam with a hard look. "Clean up that mess. And stay here."

Sam opened his mouth, his eyes dark, but Dean curtailed his complaint by closing the door. Luke's truck was backed up against the garage door; Dean hurried down the porch steps and over.

Luke stood back while he opened the garage door, his hands in his pocket. "I get the distinct impression that your brother doesn't like me much," he said with a wry grin.

Dean shrugged. "He's a brat. He'll come around."

"Your parents leave him with you a lot?"

The question caught Dean cold. He coughed, unsure, as always, what he was supposed to say. He scraped the garage door back, clicked on the light. "Our parents are dead," he said gruffly. "It's just me and Sammy."

_Just me and Sammy_.

Luke cringed. "Sorry, man, I didn't-"

"Forget it." Dean waved his hand. "It's not a big deal." It wasn't anymore. He brushed away the reminders of his loss daily, as if he were waving away a fly. There was only one loss that concerned him now, and that was Sam.

Luke started one bike, then the other, grinning when they roared to life. Dean had to smile with him; it was a job well done, a small victory in the midst of an otherwise dreary battle.

They loaded the dirt bikes into the back of the truck, tied them down with bungee cords and rope. Luke covered them with a tarp and slung himself over the tailgate of the truck. He grinned at Dean. "Thanks again, man. Really. My brothers are going to love them."

Dean thought about Sammy, sitting in front of him on the bike just the other night, and he felt suddenly weary. He forced a smile onto his face. "Well, if they're anything like my brother, they will."

Luke grinned again. He dug an envelope out of his back pocket and offered it to Dean. "I'll make sure I spread your name around a little, if you want. There's a lot of guys who can't always get the service they need at Tim's."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

Luke nodded to him one more time then, settling his red ball cap back over his sheaf of blond guy, climbed into his truck. Dean closed the garage door and waited until the truck was out of the driveway and out of sight before opening the envelope and counting the bills with shaking fingers. He tucked the envelope into his pocket and loped through the yard, up the steps, and into the kitchen without stopping.

Sam was at the kitchen table, staring dismally at his plate in front of him. The smashed remains of his sandwich sat atop it. He looked as if he had been crying.

"Dean, I hate chicken," he said immediately, and Dean suddenly didn't care. He had more money in his pocket than he had had in there at one time in months.

"That's okay," Dean replied. He hefted Sammy into his arms in one swoop. "Want to go to McDonalds?"

Sam cheered. 

Dean waited until Sam was asleep in bed that night before turning on the laptop and checking his email. Sure enough, there a message from Bobby.

_Dean-_

_ The witch's name is Edna Waimsworth. Her address is 222 Circuit Drive, Santa Augusta, New Mexico. Rufus didn't have a number or I would have given you it. Let me know what you decide to do._

_ Bobby_

Dean sat back against his headboard and closed his hated witches, more than he hated most of the supernatural things he had hunted in his hated them because, unlike most of the monsters he had encountered, they made a conscious decision to violate themselves, to ignore the rules of good and evil. He hated their hex bags and gross spells and their potions and sacrifices.

But the thought of Sammy, five and a half years old, sleeping on the other side of the wall spurred him on. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed the operator.

A woman with a smokers rasp answered the phone. "City and state," she demanded, and Dean glanced at the laptop screen.

"Um- Santa Augusta, New Mexico-"

"Business?"

His bedroom door slid open. Sammy stood in the doorway, his hair standing up in wild spikes off of his forehead. His eyes were red. Dean gestured for him to come in-

"Sir, business or residence?"

"Residence, residence, sorry-"

"Do you have the address, sir?"

Sam climbed into the bed, twisted himself underneath Dean's arm. Dean shook his head, motioned for him to be quiet. "Yeah, uh, two-two-two Circuit Drive."

"Thank you."

Dean listened to the operator's heavy breathing and the clicking of keys. Sam reached over and wormed his fingers through the hem of Dean's t-shirt.

"Sir, I have a phone listing for a Mr. and Mrs. Harold Waimsworth. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Yes." Dean let go of Sammy and struggled to find a pen among the mess on his nightstand. "Yes. That's the one."

"Should I connect you, sir?"

"No, just the number, thanks-"

"Sir, it is area code four-seven-seven…" She rambled off the rest of the phone number. Dean scribbled it down on the back of an old gas receipt. Sam craned his neck to see what he was writing.

"Sir, is there anything else I can help with you?"

"No, that's all-"

"Thank you. You have a good night now." The line went dead in his ear. He sighed and snapped his phone shut. Sam blinked up at him.

"Dean, was that Bobby?"

"No." He put the cell phone on his nightstand and sat staring at the number on the slip of paper. "Dude, what are you even doing up? I put you in bed hours ago."

"I woke up." Sam poked one finger at the receipt; Dean pulled it up and out of his reach. "Dean, is that for someone to fix me?"

Dean heard and hated the plaintive tone in his little brother's voice. He sighed, flattened his palm against the top of his brother's messy hair. "Yeah."

Sam sniffled. "Dean, I'm not broken."

Dean hated it when Sammy put it that way. "I know you're not, Sammy-"

"Then why do we have to keep seeing those people?" Sam pulled his head out from under Dean's hand. He set his mouth in a small, trembling line. "How come we just can't leave them alone? I don't like them."

Sam didn't know. He didn't understand the implications of just letting this go. "Sammy, dude, you're just going to have to trust me, okay?" He caught and held Sam's gaze with his own. "Do you trust me?"

Sam sniffled. He nodded. "I trust you, Dean." He shrugged one shoulder, looked down. "You're my big brother."

Dean pushed against the sudden lump in his throat. "I know." He slung an arm around Sam's shoulder, pulled him in close. "I'm just trying to do what's best for you."

_Are you? _A smaller voice inside of him asked. He brushed it away, kissed the top of Sammy's head. "Want me to tuck you back in?"

Sam looked up in alarm. "How come I just can't stay here?"

Dean chuckled. "Dude, believe it or not, sometimes I _like _to sleep alone."

"Why?" Sam shook his head, wrapped his arms around Dean's stomach. "I can keep you warm. See? Please?"

Dean smiled wryly and, untangling his legs from the blanket, stood. He hauled Sammy into his arms and wasn't surprised when Sam latched onto him, burying his face in the crook of Dean's neck. "Come on, man. You can spend one night in your own bed. It won't kill you."

"My room is too dark."

"You have your nightlight." He stepped into the hall, pushed open Sam's bedroom door. He deposited Sam on the bed, bending to pry Sam's arm off of his neck. "It's not dark in here at all."

"I like your bed better." Sam flopped over onto his side. "It's bigger."

"It's the same size."

"It feels bigger." Sam squinted over at Dean. "You're there."

Dean tucked the blanket around Sam, then, sitting on the edge of the bed, smoothed his hair off of his forehead. "You're okay in your own bed. See? Look at all of the space you have."

Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth. He sniffled. "Space sucks," he groused, and Dean laughed. He leaned over and kissed his brother's forehead.

"Good night, Sam."

Sam huffed. "G'night, Dean-o," he muttered. He wrapped his fingers quickly in Dean's, squeezed. "If I get scared, can you come back?"

Dean stood. "Of course."

Sam smiled. "Okay." He rolled over and wrapped his arms around his security blanket. Dean watched him a moment longer, then went back into his own room, where he pushed the laptop off of his bed and lay in the dark for a long time, staring at the night sky through his bedroom window. He could hear Sammy's breathing through the walls**.**

"Dean, are you gonna miss me?"

Dean looked up from where he was sitting on the steps of the back porch. Sam stood a few feet in front of him, head cocked to one side, fingers in his mouth. Dean blinked. "What?'

"I said, are you gonna miss me?" Sam bobbed his head. "When I go to school?" Without waiting for an answer, Sam plowed on: "Who's gonna talk to you, Dean?"

"What?"

"If I go to school, who's gonna talk to you? You're gonna get bored." Sam brightened. "Maybe Tim will talk to you."

Dean chuckled. "Maybe."

"Who will eat your lunch with you?"

Dean saw, with startling clarity, the sudden looming hole that was going to be his days without Sammy glued to his side. Over the last ten months, he had grown accustomed to that, to the small, needful presence of his little brother. Dean felt suddenly more alone than he had in years.

Sam was watching him closely, fingers still stuffed in his mouth. "Maybe I don't have to go to school, Dean."

Dean shook himself. "You do have to go, Sammy-"

"I'm scared." Sam gulped, blinked. "What if nobody talks to me?"

The look on Sam's face, those wide, dewy eyes, was breaking Dean's heart. He reached out, drew Sammy forward until he leaned against his knees. "Sammy, dude, you're worrying about nothing. Everyone is going to love you."

"How do you know?"

_Because I do. _"They always do. Name one person you know who doesn't like you."

Sam sniffled. He pressed a fist into his eye. "Sometimes you don't."

"That's bull."

"Sometimes you yell at me."

"Sometimes you deserve to be yelled at," Dean countered. He sighed and pulled Sammy's hand out of his mouth. "But even then, I still like you."

Sam squinted. "So are you gonna miss me?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I am." Sam's face dropped; Dean smiled, tousled Sam's hair. "Want to help me wash the Impala?"

Sam grinned. 

Washing the Impala was a Sunday afternoon thing. The dirt roads were crap on her paint, even if the steady, dry weather was perfect for her body. Dean liked to take his time with her, make her shine, keep her tuned up and running smoothly. She was all he had left of his father; she was the closest thing he had ever had to a home. She deserved to be treasured.

Sam liked washing the Impala. On days like today, when it was clear skies and eighty-two degrees, it wasn't a chore; it was a treat. They got the buckets of soap and the hose and the sponges and before long, it turned, as it always did, from washing the car into an all-out water fight.

Sam was in charge of the sponges. When he got tired of wiping the few parts of the car that he could reach, he resorted to throwing them at Dean. Dean had to admit that the fight was one-sided and unfair; he was bigger, after all, and he had the hose. But Sam never seemed to mind. Before long, the Impala was covered in suds, dripping water from her fenders and undercarriage and mirrors; the red dirt driveway was a swamp around their feet; and Sam was thoroughly soaked but doggedly persistent in his attacks on Dean.

Sam had one big advantage over Dean, and that was that he was fast. There was only so many times that Dean could run in circles around the Impala before he grew winded. Sam had no such qualms. Eventually, when he was gasping for breath, Dean stood in one spot and let loose the hose on Sam, who shrieked and crouched against the side of the Impala, hands over his face, laughing into the spray. He laughed so hard he fell over, face down, into the mud of the driveway and sat there, breathless, snorting, happy.

Dean let the hose drop and watched his brother. There were moments when he thought that the idea of keeping this Sam- this happy, healthy, bright little boy – was the only thing he wanted. His Sam, big Sam, old Sam, was a shell of a memory in moments like this. He was a broken man, a lost brother, a casualty taken by the tragedies of life and death. Here, Dean saw clearly, was a chance to start over, to try again, to give his little brother all that he had ever wanted to give him, all he deserved, all he had been unable to deliver.

Sam was dirty on the ground. His laughter was coming in short, panting bursts; his face was red. He grinned up at Dean from his spot in the mud. He had mud on his face and water dripping from the tip of his nose and hair plastered to his forehead. He frowned suddenly.

"Dean," he said, "Can you help me up?"

Dean knew it was a trick. It always was. He walked into it anyways. When he crouched to hoist him up, Sam grabbed the sides of Dean's face, smearing him with muddy palm prints. He howled with laughter; Dean dropped Sam, grabbed the hose, and held it over his brother's head.

Eventually, Dean relented. Sam was sodden. His clothes stuck to him when he moved and he was filthy. Dean chuckled and sat back on his heels. "Dude, you're a mess."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's your fault." He went to stick his fingers into his mouth; Dean stopped him by placing the hose in his palm.

"Come on, kid. You want to rinse her off?"

The hose was a little much for Sam to handle. Dean took him around the waist and held him, back to chest, against him. He used his other hand to steady the hose in Sam's small hands. They moved in a circle, Sam quietly diligent in his attack on the soapy car.

When she was clean, Dean turned off the hose and helped Sam gather the sponges and buckets. The mud was drying to Sam's face, flaking and crusty. His sneakers squished when he walked. He giggled. "Dean, listen."

"I know." On the porch, Dean swept Sam into his arms and carried him through the doorway, through the living room, up the stairs. Sam struggled in his hold.

"Dean, put me down."

"And have to clean the floor after? No thanks, man."

In the bathroom, Dean turned on the shower, lukewarm, and drew the curtain. He sat on the top of the toilet seat and, placing Sam on one of his knees, struggled to unknot Sam's sneakers. Sam wiggled. "Dean."

"Hold still, Sam, okay?"

"Dean, you can be friends with Luke, if you want."

Dean raised an eye brow at his brother. "Gee, Sammy, that's generous of you." He dropped Sam's sneaker to the floor, peeled the soaking sock off of his foot. Sam huffed.

"You can be his friend, okay?" Sam placed one small hand on Dean's cheek. "But only I can be your brother, okay?"

Dean hesitated, then said thickly: "Well, who else is going to be my brother if you're not?"

Sam shrugged. The seriousness of the moment, of his request, soared over his head. "I don't know." He was still as Dean wrangled his other sock and sneaker off of him, then helped him peel away his sopping shirt and shorts.

"Get in the shower, okay?" Dean said. "When you're done, come downstairs and help me make dinner, all right?"

Sam nodded. "Okie dokie, Dean-o." He grinned briefly. Dean gathered the wet clothes and dirty sneakers and went out.

He went into his room, where he changed into another pair of jeans and t-shirt. He took all of the clothes and made his way into the basement, where he dumped his armload into the washer and turned it on. It occurred to him suddenly that soaking Sam might not have been in his interest; Sam needed the sneakers to wear to school tomorrow.

In the kitchen, he scrubbed the mud off of his face at the sink and set about making dinner. It wasn't long before Sam skipped into the kitchen, dressed only in a pair of basketball shorts, his skinny chest still glistening with water droplets. He dragged a chair away from the table and pushed it up against the counter before clambering atop it.

"What's for dinner, Dean?" He asked brightly. "Pizza?"

"Close. Spaghetti and meatballs."

Sam grinned toothily. "Can I roll the meatballs, Dean?"

Together, they rolled the hamburger into balls. Sam sat atop the counter and watched as Dean fried them in a pan. His hair had dried in spiky tufts.

"Dean, I'm still scared about school."

Dean glanced over. "I know. You're going to be scared until you get there and realize it's not so bad."

"Are you gonna come with me?"

"I'm going to drop you off-"

"Can you stay?" Sam looked down at his fingers, twisted them together. "Just for tomorrow, Dean?"

Dean bit his lip. "Sammy, I'm too old for school-"

"No, your not-"

"Sam." Sam fell quiet. Dean smiled at him. "Kiddo, this is just one of those things you have to do on your own, okay? You're going to be fine. You're going to have a blast. You won't even miss me."

Sam sniffed. "I always miss you, Dean," he said softly. He looked up from under his fringe of bangs. "If I get too scared, can I call you?"

"You can always call me." Dean reached around Sam for the plates. "Put the chair back at the table, Sammy. Dinner's ready."

After they ate, they packed Sam's lunch. He was meticulous in the way that he arranged the food inside of his little metal box: his sandwich on one side, his carrot sticks on another, his cookies and strawberries in the middle. He tucked the dollar for his juice into the center, then looked shyly up at Dean.

"Dean, can I call Bobby?"

Dean blinked. "Bobby?"

"Yeah." Sam hopped off of the chair, stumbling when he hit the ground. "So he can say good luck to me."

Dean chuckled and reached into his pocket for his phone. "Okay-"

"I can dial it, Dean. I know his number." Sam held out his hand imploringly. Dean passed him the phone, warning him:

"Don't drop it, Sammy."

"I know, Dean. I'm not a baby." Sam flipped the phone open, then asked, "Can I go upstairs, Dean?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Why? You're just calling Bobby."

"Because, Dean," Sam said with exaggerated patience, as if Dean was the one that wasn't making any sense, "This is a private conversation."

Dean sighed but waved him away. Sam trotted up the staircase, the phone nestled securely against his chest. Dean put their lunches in the fridge and washed the dishes. He locked the door, did the salt lines, and turned off the outside lights. It was eight-twenty five when he knocked at Sam's door.

"Sammy, you off the phone? It's bed time."

The door slid open to reveal a scowling Sam. "I have five minutes, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Brush your teeth," he said. "And bed. Okay? You have to be up early tomorrow." Sam's face whitened. Dean bent down, clasped his little brother's chin in his hand. "Dude, you're going to do great, okay?"

Sam hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, Dean. If you say so." 

Dean woke with Sam in his bed. He lay there for a long time after he'd regained consciousness. Outside of his window, the morning birds sang and beside him, Sam murmured in his sleep.

He had said good bye many times to Sam before. When he and his father had hunted together, before Sam was old enough to come; when Sam left for Stanford; when Sam went to California to find their father. He'd missed Sam all of those times and more. There were dozens of times Sam had left, or he had left, or they had been separated, whether by the hunt or by accident or by circumstances. But somehow this time was hardest, Dean realized. Saying good bye to Sammy for just six hours loomed unbearably on the horizon.

Sam was quiet all morning. He barely spoke through breakfast. He dressed silently. He didn't even complain when Dean forced a comb through his hair. He sat quietly in the living room, his backpack on his knees, while Dean finished getting himself ready for the day.

Finally, Dean opened the front door and grinned over at Sam. "All set, dude?"

Sam took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice quivered. "Dean, please can I stay home?"

_Yes._

Dean crouched down in front of his brother, brushed a wisp of hair back from Sammy's face. "Sammy, man- you've been so excited to start school. What's going on?"

"I just- I just-" Tears spilled out of Sam's eyes. "I just don't have any friends yet, Dean."

"You can't have them till you meet them, Sam."

"I just don't want you to be alone."

Dean closed his eyes. He circled Sam's head with his hand, pressed his forehead to his brother's. "Sammy, you don't have to worry about me, okay? It's my job to worry about you." Sam sniffled and tried to draw his head back, but Dean kept his grip firm, kept him close. "And you don't have to worry about school either, Sammy. You're the smartest kid I know. You're going to do great. You're going to make a ton of friends and you're going to learn a ton of stuff, and besides- your teacher is cute, man. Don't ruin my chances with her by skipping out."

Sam laughed loudly. Dean smiled past the lump in his throat and patted his shoulder. "There's my boy," he said softly. "What do you say, dude? You ready?"

Sam nodded. "Ready, Freddie." He hopped off of the couch and followed Dean out the door, his head held high. 

The drive to the school was a short one. When Dean pulled the Impala into a parking spot, the schoolyard was swamped with children. Dean couldn't remember the last time he had seen so many in one place.

Dean knew the way to Sam's room. Sam followed him, dutifully quiet, his hand pressed into Dean's palm. At the doorway, Sam drew back suddenly. Dean bent to look at him.

"What is it, Sammy?"

Sam bit his lip. "Are you sure I can't stay home?" he whispered, and Dean smiled ruefully, shook his head.

"Come on, kiddo."

He entered the classroom and was assaulted immediately by the sounds of children. Most looked up in wide eyed curiosity at him; a few spared glances at Sam. Sam's new teacher, a tall thin black lady that Dean had met with several times before, came forward immediately, a smile splitting her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Winchester," she said loudly. She crouched so she was eye level with Sam and held out her hand. "Hello, Sam. Do you remember me?" Sam nodded mutely. She chuckled softly and touched his shoulder. "We're all looking forward to meeting you, Sam. You have a lot of friends here already, you know."

Sam gulped. "I do?"

She laughed. "You do." She stood and smiled at Dean. She was only a little shorter than he was but she filled the room, it seemed, with her vivacious smile and overbearing warmth. It was, Dean had to admit, a little unnerving. "I'll understand if you want to take a few minutes to say good bye to Sam." She moved past him, beckoning for them to follow. She led them to a row of cubbies on the wall. Most were filled, with jackets and colored backpacks and books, but there was one empty one. It had two small golden hooks inside of it and a red apple taped to the top that read, in big black letters: SAM W.

Dean nudged Sam. "See, Sammy? That's yours." Sam nodded wordlessly. His teacher smiled down at him.

"Sam, our class is going to start in a few minutes. We always start our day with circle time, and today, I thought you might like to lead it." She put a hand on his head, softly, as if she were unsure that it belonged there. Sam slid away from her touch, pressed himself into Dean's. "I'm going to introduce you to the class and I thought you would like to tell us something about yourself."

"What do I have to say?" Sam asked in a whisper, and she smiled broadly.

"Whatever you want to, Sam. You can tell us where you're from, or how old you are, or what your favorite things are." She smiled again, then nodded at Dean. "I'll let you say good bye and get settled in. Sam, when you're ready, you just come over to me, okay?"

Sam nodded. She offered Dean one last smile, then strode across the room, calling her students to attention. Dean knelt and fumbled with the buttons on Sam's jacket.

"You okay, dude?"

Sam started. He turned wide eyes to Dean, struggled with the straps on his backpack. He pointed to the cubby with his name on the apple. "That's mine, Dean."

"I know." Dean slid the backpack off of Sam, hung it on one of the hooks. He waited while Sam pulled his jacket off, then hung that up as well. Sam was looking around wildly, a little flush coloring his cheeks. He had his fingers in his mouth; Dean figured that this one time wouldn't hurt and let him be.

"You all set, Sam?"

It hurt to ask that. Sam wasn't all set, Dean thought wildly. _He _wasn't all set. He wasn't ready for this, wasn't ready to give his little brother to someone else. He wasn't ready for a Sammy that was okay without him at his side.

Sam looked up at him. His eyes were glowing. He was excited, just as Dean knew he would be. "Dean, there's a lot of kids here."

"There are."

"What am I supposed to say?"

Dean shrugged and knelt down again. He reached out to straighten Sam's collar, pluck the fingers from his mouth. "Whatever you want to."

"She said I could talk about my favorite things." Sam's eyes darted around. "Maybe I can tell them about Iron Man."

Dean chuckled. "Sure, Sammy."

Sam suddenly locked eyes with Dean. He grinned broadly. "Maybe I'll just tell them about you," he said softly. "You're my favorite brother, Dean."

Dean coughed. "I'm your only brother, dude," he offered weakly, and was rewarded with a giggle. Sam pursed his lips, then said, seriously, "You can kiss me good bye, Dean."

Dean blinked in surprise; Sam held up his hand, mock serious. "But just this once, okay? Just for now."

How Sam always seemed to know exactly what he was thinking was beyond him. He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed the top of Sam's unruly brown curls. "You're okay if I go, Sammy?"

Sam nodded stoically. "Yup." He paused. "You're gonna be here at two, right, Dean?"

Dean nodded. "Wouldn't miss it." He watched his brother smile, skip away. He got clumsily to his feet, started for the door, catching the eye of Sam's teacher. She smiled encouragingly at him. It was all he could do to not turn around and grab Sam back for himself.

He was already out in the hallway when Sam burst out the door behind him. "Dean, I forgot-" he grabbed Dean's sleeve, tugged him down. He looked nervous. "I put something in your pocket, okay? But you can't look at it till you get to the Impala, okay?" His eyes were earnest. "Promise me, Dean, okay?"

Dean nodded. "I promise, Sammy." Sam grinned and backed away, back towards the classroom door.

"Okie dokie, Dean-o," he said, and disappeared inside. 

Back in the Impala, Dean sat and watched the school yard clear of children. He watched the buses arrange themselves along the curbs, watched their drives dismount and ramble away. He waited a few minutes, then fumbled in his jacket pockets.

There was a square of white paper in one, folded over with neatly creased edges and smudged fingerprints. Dean opened it slowly, spread it flat against the steering wheel of the Impala. It was a simple drawing, done in carefully chosen crayon: yellow sun, red ground, golden hair, brown curls, blue dirt bike. Dean remembered the night, only a few days ago, with Sam between his arms and the bike between his legs and the feel of it, the absolute joy in knowing that whatever might happen, whatever they decided to do, that this would be one of those moments that Sam could treasure, look back on, could shape his growing future around. Sam had had so little of those before. Dean would give him so many of those now.

The drawing was no Van Gogh, but it was Sammy. At the top, in painstakingly crude handwriting, Sam had written: TO DEAN-O LOVE SAM. Dean knew without a shadow of a doubt what last night's phone call to Bobby had been about.

Dean was a little embarrassed to have to grind the wetness out of his eyes with the heel of his palm. He folded the picture over again, smaller than Sammy had folded it before, and pressed it into his wallet. He felt light suddenly, as open and broad as the sky that arced over the edge of the desert. He grinned as he glanced at the dashboard clock, eased the Impala into gear, pulled out of the parking lot and down the road. He turned his radio on and thumped his hands against his steering wheel in time to the beat of the music.

He couldn't wait for two o'clock.


End file.
